


the ocean

by consultingwives (westminsterabi)



Series: Quinlock Shorts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Fem John, Femlock, John is bisexual, Pining, Pining John, Rule 63, Songfic, john thinks that sherlock doesn't love her back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/consultingwives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To John, returned from war barely six months ago, nowhere feels more comfortable than this (she doesn’t think about Jamie, not anymore), sipping hot coffee she’s brewed herself, with the woman that she loves, who doesn’t happen to love her back, but what matter? The two of them can spend the rest of their lives together, stay close, and John never has to say goodbye to her or let her go."</p><p>John thinks Sherlock doesn't love her back. She has a hard time coping with the idea.</p><p>Songfic for "The Ocean" by Tegan and Sara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ocean

John worries constantly if Sherlock feels the same way, until she remembers that Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way and that the possibility is beyond nil. She wonders what it’s like to be in Sherlock’s head, bare of emotions.

 

_When you wake what is it that you think of most?_

 

She wonders if Sherlock has ever felt that for another person, especially the way that she feels it for Sherlock. If Sherlock has _ever_ had a boyfriend ( _not my area_ ) or a girlfriend ( _which is fine…I know it’s fine_ ). If Sherlock has ever shared a bed or run to the student health clinic for an STD test. Back when she was at Cambridge, probably, or whatever.

 

_When your bed is empty do you really sleep alone?_

 

John practically gets a crush on every other person she meets—occupational hazard of being both bi and a hopeless romantic—and she can’t imagine what life would be like without those feelings, sometimes annoying and sometimes less so, especially when John has fallen in love and kissed every inch of some beautiful girl. Sherlock is the best of all of them, or she would be if John were permitted to kiss every inch of her. Which she isn’t.

 

_If I imagine you, body next to another._

 

Sherlock is the worst crush she’s had by far, and every time John looks at her she feels perfect and right. John just wants to be close to her, and is that so wrong, really?

 

_All around me new love and it makes me sad._

 

John’s been dating other men, trying not to think about Sherlock. It’s easier to date men, because John doesn’t love them the same way that she loves girls, and it’s easier to avoid comparing. She dates men who tear condom packages with their teeth and call her “love”, and one time, a man who slapped her butt in public without asking permission. John dumped him right away. She dates men who say vapid shit about Arsenal and ask her, _what do you do again,_ and John compares them constantly to Sherlock and they never measure up.  

 

_All around me feel assured that you’ll be back._

Every morning John wakes up and pads downstairs in wool socks, past the door to Sherlock’s room, and listens to Sherlock snore for thirty seconds before she grinds the coffee and greases the pan for eggs. She wonders if there will ever be more than this, and if Sherlock will ever know how she feels. If Sherlock found out, she would probably just say that it was sentiment. She might tease John about her funny little brain being so susceptible to such a thing. And that would be unbearable.

 

_If I imagine you, body next to another._

 

On the other hand, maybe she’d understand, in her Lt. Commander Data kind of way. _I’m sorry, John, I don’t feel the same way. Of course, we spend so much time together, it’s only natural, I’m sure your feelings will eventually subside, and if there’s anything I can do to help in the meantime…_ That seems more likely. Sherlock is much softer than people imagine her to be. She has feelings, she knows that other people do too. (But not those kinds of feelings, that’s a step too far.)

 

Sherlock has a heart. John has seen it.

 

_Stop crying to the ocean, stop crying over me._

John wishes that she could turn it off, the way that she cares, the way that Sherlock seems to be able to ( _will caring about them help save them?_ ), but she can’t. She’s never tried.

 

John has these thoughts every morning, as she cracks the eggs and fishes a bit of shell out, because she hasn’t perfected it quite yet. She asks herself more questions about Sherlock’s hypothetical exes while she pours in the milk and beats the eggs with a fork until they froth. And then, on some mornings, if Sherlock hasn’t spent the night sorting through clues until dawn, John then hears a pair of feet slam on Sherlock’s wood floors, a yawn, and the swish of a dressing gown being taken off the hook.

 

_Stop worrying over nothing, stop worrying over me._

 

This particular morning, Sherlock makes some offhand comment about their latest case, and runs a hand forward through her hair. (It was a bank robbery, nothing too exciting, but Sherlock had progressed to throwing javelins at the wall and John had assured Mrs Hudson that she’d do anything and everything to convince Sherlock to take _whatever_ case next showed up at their door.)

 

_So it’s been so long since you said._

 

John meets Sherlock’s eyes like she always does, and smiles. “Well, anything on your website?”

 

“You don’t need to tease me about it,” says Sherlock with a huff, planting her bottom in her armchair and drawing her knees up to her chin. Her dressing gown is trailing on the floor, and John can see the tired circles under Sherlock’s eyes. “Just because _you’re_ an internet celebrity…”

 

_Well I know what I want and what I want’s right here with you._

 

The eggs sizzle as John pours them into the pan. “I wasn’t teasing.” She doesn’t mention the fact that if there’s an internet celebrity in this flat, it’s definitely Sherlock.

 

“Well, you could have fooled me,” says Sherlock, pouting.

 

They’re not congealing as fast as John would like—she hates dry eggs, and a good two minutes on the pan is usually more than enough to make them inedible. “Eggs?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, people might realize you’re actually a carbon-based life-form.”

 

Sherlock rolls her eyes.

 

_On the drive back here I was worrying over nothing._

 

Why does John like her so much? There’s no use pretending that she isn’t absolutely stunning, and everyone notices it, especially when Sherlock takes the sixty seconds out of her day to flick an eyeliner pencil over her eyelids—but she’s always pretty anyway.

 

That’s not why, though—at least, that’s just a miniscule part of it.

 

_On the drive back there tears spilling over something._

 

The rest of it is the way that she smiles, the way that her face lights up when she’s hot on the scent of a solution to a case; the way that her nostrils flare and she sometimes grabs John by the shoulders and gives her an enormous peck on the forehead before dashing off to do whatever. John loves the way that Sherlock smiles when she forgets herself. She loves the way Sherlock smiles when she isn’t carrying the weight of the world on those broad shoulders.

 

_When I imagine you, body next to another._

 

There have to have been people, right? Sherlock is simply too attractive not to have had boys chasing her since primary school. And girls, John imagines. Everyone, really. John can’t be the only one to have noticed all this.

 

This morning, John scrapes the overcooked eggs out of the pan and walks over to hand Sherlock a plate and a fork.

 

“Not bad, this,” says Sherlock, chewing. “Is there coffee?”

 

“’Thank you, John, for making breakfast,’” says John, leaning against the counter. “Yes, there’s coffee.”

 

_In the door and you’re there and you’re sorry for the fright._

 

John fills Sherlock’s favourite mug and walks over to their armchairs before turning around. “Two sugars, right.”

 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts just a little bit, and John’s not sure if it was an illusion or not as she sits back down in her chair and watches the steam rise from her own mug.

 

_In the door, can I hear you saying you don’t wanna fight?_

To John, returned from war barely six months ago, nowhere feels more comfortable than this (she doesn’t think about Jamie, not anymore), sipping hot coffee she’s brewed herself, with the woman that she loves, who doesn’t happen to love her back, but what matter? The two of them can spend the rest of their lives together, stay close, and John never has to say goodbye to her or let her go. They can stay here until they die and so what if sometimes John needs to go frantically rub one out to keep herself sane?

 

_When I imagine you, body next to another._

 

It would be much better than saying goodbye.

 

_In a flash it’s back to you, just brought attention to the mess._

“You’re thinking,” says Sherlock, fixing John with a stare from across the room. She’s curious, trying to understand what John could possibly be contemplating. Sherlock takes a gulp of coffee.

 

“I’m sure your date will go well.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking about my date.”

 

“Well, shit.” Sherlock shrugs and sips her coffee. “Errors happen. For future reference, what _were_ you thinking about?”

 

_In a flash you’re on top begging me to understand._

 

John blinks and wishes that she could tell Sherlock the truth.

 

“You.” She doesn’t mean to reveal that much. “Why did you think I was thinking about my date?”

 

“You looked at your purse, wondering if your wallet is in it, then at your shelf on the bookcase, where you’ve conveniently placed Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, and other romantic novels. Wasn’t hard to guess. Although clearly it was. Me, really?” Sherlock crosses her legs and tilts her head.

 

_If I imagine you, body next to another._

 

“What were you like at university?”

 

“Insufferable,” says Sherlock with a chuckle. There’s a barely-detectable tint of sadness in her eyes, which doesn’t go unnoticed by John. “Everyone hated me.”

 

“Ever have a boyfriend?”

 

“I’ve told you,” she says, with a smirk. “Not really my area.”

 

“Girlfriend, then?”

 

_You drop in for a minute and I’m sorry that I didn’t drop in sooner._

 

“I was married to my work even back then, John. Sentiment, not really my forte.”

 

“Alright,” says John. “I’ll get it out of you someday.”

 

“There’s nothing to get out.” Her jaw sets, and John knows that it’s time to back off.

 

_Just to see you and see what you’ve been doing._

 

John has never wanted to say it more than she does now. Sherlock has never been more open and vulnerable, and John has never loved her more—the more that Sherlock shows her of that beautiful heart, the more nights John spends looking at the ceiling thinking about Sherlock, checking match.com for potential boyfriends and feeling helpless and thinking she ought to make another appointment with Ella. The more that she sees of Sherlock, the more it feels like a punch in the face when she closes up again.

 

_If I imagine you, body next to another._

 

If she said it, it could be over—and then what? Sherlock would say whatever she would say, and things would never quite be the same because she’d know that John had fallen victim to the one thing that Sherlock truly despises. Love. Romantic love. Sentiment. Does it really have to feel this horrible, caring about a person?

 

_It’s been so long since you said._

Does it always feel this wonderful, caring about a person? John can’t remember for the life of her, if for her previous lovers she would have jumped in front of bullets, risked getting blown up, shot a man. She doesn’t think so.

 

_Well I know what I want and what I want’s right here with you._

 

There’s something beautiful, even when the other person doesn’t like you back, in studying the contours of a girl’s face and finding no flaws. John wishes that she could find another Sherlock clone somewhere who could feel these things, because Sherlock still thinks that with those feelings she wouldn’t be Sherlock. She couldn’t be more wrong. John wonders if maybe there’s something more buried under there, but then, on the other hand, probably not.

 

_It’s been so long since you said._

 

John wants nothing more than to just be close to her.

 

_Well I know what I want_

_And what I want’s right here with you._


End file.
